


Guilt and Atonement

by sarahgayle1214



Series: The Praxus Anthology [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethical Dilemmas, Gen, Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgayle1214/pseuds/sarahgayle1214
Summary: “Commander Jazz-”“Just answer me this. How many?”“I’m afraid I don’t understand-”“Tell me how many.”“How many what?”“How many missions like this. How many deactivated.”“Be more specific.”“How many suicide missions! How many labels did you change? How many Autobots sent to their deaths without knowing why! How many are deactivated because of you?”Not all friendships start by conventional means. And Prowl and Jazz are anything but conventional.





	Guilt and Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> This is the promised companion piece to my other work, Praxus. This is technically a prequel, but both works are capable of standing alone. Enjoy!

The sound of Jazz’s palms slamming into the desk rang so loudly it hurt his audios, the doorwings of the mech across the desk twitching as he looked up with a nearly imperceptible raised optic ridge.

“Did you know this was going to happen?” Jazz demanded, looming over the desk with an uncharacteristically furious scowl. 

Prowl stood with a sigh of air through his vents, setting the datapad he had been holding down on the desk, fingertips pressing lightly on the desk in front of him. 

“Is there something you feel we need to discuss, Commander Jazz?” He asked, tone polite enough not to be offensive but too cold and hollow to be genuine.

“Yes, Commander Prowl,” Jazz purred, positively saccharine. “I would like to discuss why the frag my mechs were sent out to deactivate on your orders. Because unless you’re completely incompetent or oblivious, this was a suicide mission. Am I correct?”

“I am neither incompetent or oblivious; and yes, I knew an outcome such as this was a likely possibility.” Prowl replied, the picture of cool indifference.

“Shadowstrike and Fulcrum are deactivated and Ratchet is in medbay fighting to keep Bumblebee from joining them and you knew this outcome was a likely possibility?” The Head of Special Operations spat, engine revving lowly. “Two good Autobots - two of my agents - are deactivated and you don’t care.”

“On the contrary, I care greatly.” Prowl replied, expression as cold as ever.

“Really?” Jazz snorted bitterly. “It sure doesn’t look like it.”

The Tactical Head splayed his hands across his desk, leaning forward until he was less than a handspan from the other mech’s livid visage, close enough to see the glow of his optics behind his visor.

“We are at war, Commander Jazz. A war which we are in danger of losing. Sacrifices must be made.” He said slowly, optics chips of icy blue and danger in his expression.

“And so you carelessly sacrifice the lives of our own soldiers?” Jazz fired back, waving a hand furiously.

“On the contrary, a great deal of care was put into the tactical planning of this mission. Thousands of scenarios were considered and this plan had the highest probability of ensuring we received the intelligence needed to plan the next offensive. No lives were sacrificed without care or without cause.” Prowl responded curtly, still infuriatingly calm, even as his doorwings twitched with irritation.

“Without cause, huh? Why didn’t ya ask the Autobots whose lives you were sacrificing if they thought it was without cause?”

“For what purpose?”

“For what purpose? What kind of cold-sparked glitch are you?” Jazz exploded, voice biting in its fury and volume. “Mechs are deactivated and their energon on your hands.” An accusatory finger was jabbed in the tactician's face. “All of my agents know the job is risky and are willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause, but we expect to be given a choice when presented with a mission that might require it.”

“If all of your agents are prepared for such sacrifices and know the job, as you said, why is such a choice required?” Prowl questioned, expression somehow even colder than before, optics frigid and jaw clenched.

“I read the briefing again when I saw how bad the mission went. High risk, you called it. That’s how it was classified. That’s supposed to mean there’s a  _ minimum _ of a twenty percent chance of everyone coming home alive. Now I ain't no  _ tactician _ ,” Jazz growled, field flaring with anger, “but there ain’t no way in Pit that’s the truth. Judging by the  _ carnage _ , I’d call this max risk - a suicide mission. That’s something you’re supposed to tell people before you give them their orders! There are protocols for this, Prowl. I have agents I know can handle missions like that, and none of the agents you sent were on that list.”

“Yes, because the risk was too great to send valuable assets.” Prowl explained irritably, doorwings high and stiff. “I recommended the team I did because they wouldn’t have a significant tactical impact if they didn’t survive or were captured.”

“It’s not about making sure the agents we send are expendable, it’s making sure they’ll get home, for frag’s sake!”

“And why’s that?”

“Because we’re Autobots for Primus’s sake! We don’t do scrap like that!” Jazz fired back, striking the desk with an open palm for emphasis. 

The twitch of Prowl’s doorwings did not go unnoticed, nor did the faint tightening around his optics. The SpecOps Head paused briefly, stepping back to examine the other mech with a sharp glance before snorting in disgust.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean anything to a sparkless fragger like you, does it? Ethics are only for us weaklings who actually give a frag about our soldiers, aren’t they?” The saboteur sneered.

“And yet you seem to have no problem violating those same ethics with insubordination.”

“Insubordination is not the same sending good mechs to deactivate!” Jazz snapped back, engine revving. “If you had even a line of ethical or emotional programming in that blasted helm of yours you’d know that you sparkless glitch!

“Don’t make claims you can’t defend, Commander,” Prowl growled, leaning over the desk and into the other mech’s face as he spoke.

Jazz blinked, helm jerking back as he considered the Head of the Tactical Department.

“Is that a threat?” He asked, watching the mech warily. 

“I don’t make threats. I state facts. Unlike the borderline slanderous drivel you seem inclined to spout at this moment.”

“For Primus’ sake!” Jazz barked. “Get it through your thick helm, you sparkless malfunction, that going off on a fellow officer is not the same as sendin’ people out to be killed without giving them a choice. You might as well have killed ‘em yourself.”

“And how many have you killed?”

“That’s different.”

“Really? How?”

“I’m not you.”

“Oh, so because it’s you, it’s acceptable?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, of course,” Prowl answered, a tinge of bitter sarcasm coloring his voice. “And I’m sure the hands of the Autobots’ finest assassin are entirely energon free.”

“You fragging glitch!” Jazz roared, launching himself across the desk, grabbing the other mech’s collar strut and yanking.

The two mechs collided like a stormfront, the dull clash of metal striking metal pounding like thunder as they crashed to the floor in a heap of writhing limbs and rage, datapads flying as they writhed. Jazz had the advantage of surprise and speed, sliding out of Prowl’s holds like oil. But the Praxian tactician was strong, heavy Enforcer armor absorbing blows easily, well-honed reflexes dodging and pinning flying fists. The two were nothing but flashing metal, moving too fast to know where one ended and the other began. 

And then it was over, Jazz’s blade poised at Prowl’s throat, the Praxian’s doorwings grinding into his office floor as he was held down. 

“I guess it seems I can defend my claims, Commander.” Jazz hissed, vents heaving from the fight. 

“If anything, you’ve proved my point. Will you spill my energon as well?”

Jazz dug the blade further into the other mech’s neck, a drop of energon beading where the tip of the knife nicked a line, garishly bright in the dim office.

“I’d recommend you stop talking.” Jazz ground out through clenched denta. “Now, I don’t know what the Pit is wrong with you, mech, but someone needs to show you what ethical programming looks like.” The mech growled, still holding his blade firmly against the other’s neck as he fumbled to open a compartment on his left flank, withdrawing his cord. 

The mech below him tensed at the sight, optics flashing with fear. And then like a switch had been thrown, he thrashed under the Polyhexian’s firm grasp, desperately attempting to escape. His wild, flailing strikes glanced off the saboteur’s armor, leaving streaks of paint and drawing a pained curse. But his wild fight was in vain as Jazz slid his cord home into the mech’s port. Their struggle shifted arenas, now a mental battle as Prowl fought to defend his mind from invasion. 

The tactician's firewalls were strong and thick, layer after layer of coding designed to stymie and shred the mind of an intruder. But much like in the physical realm, Jazz was small and fast, his mental presence weaving through the gauntlet that was Prowl’s firewalls with destructive ease. 

And then he was in, the Praxian’s mind laid open to him. He could feel the other mech’s instinctive panic at the intrusion. He could feel his own fingers digging into black and white shoulders. And he dove in deeper, plunging further into the other mech’s mind as he searched for ethical and emotional programming.

As deep as he was in the Praxian’s mind, Jazz couldn’t avoid picking up on his thoughts. As he continued to tear through Prowl’s mind on his way to his emotional programming, Jazz felt the cold bolt of pure terror that raced through the tactician, fear so strong it flooded his circuits and froze him in place. Suddenly, the mech below him  _ seized _ , frame going rigid before spasming uncontrollably, nearly dislodging his attacker. Searing agony burned through the connection into Jazz’s mind and body, every byte and circuit ablaze with phantom flames as he felt system after system shut down around him. And he  _ screamed _ . The sound that ripped itself from two throats was something wild, a terrible feral roar more at home in the mouth of a beast than a mech.

Then suddenly it stopped. The tactician went limp, his mind falling horribly, terrifyingly blank.

Jazz scrabbled off the mech, wrenching his cord from Prowl’s port. Shaking, aching limbs fumbled as he crawled a few steps away, vents heaving as he struggled not to purge his tanks. He felt as if he had been doused with liquid nitrogen - cold and brittle like he would fall apart at the slightest touch. He scrambled around, pressing his back to the wall as his plating shook and his spark spun wildly in its chamber.

Jazz was at a loss. For all the mechs he’d hacked as a SpecOps agent, he’d never experienced something like that. It had  _ burned _ , like the very energon in his lines had caught fire, flames licking at every sensor and circuit. And then the blankness - the horrifying, endless void that seemed to suck in his very spark, colder and emptier than deep space. He shivered again. He’d expect a Decepticon to have traps like that, not an Autobot officer. Spark stuttering, Jazz’s thoughts ground to halt.

“Oh, Primus.” He gasped. “Oh, Primus, what’ve I done?”

He’d attacked a fellow Autobot - an officer to boot - and caused… whatever the fragging Pit that was. His gaze trailed over to where Prowl lay, frame sickeningly still. Oh, Primus, was he…? No, his scanners still showed a spark signature. But something was clearly awry with the mech’s systems, helm radiating heat and processors dangerously close to overheating. Pit, he had to do something. As much as he loathed the mech, he wasn’t exactly about to let him overheat and deactivate in the middle of his office floor if he could help it. Primus, if he just had a cold pack.

He could get one. It was late, well into the night shift. And according to the logs, Ratchet was busy in the operating theater, as well as most of the on-duty medical staff. While his engine revved with anger at the thought of what had been done to Bumblebee that his agent and friend required such attention, a brief moment of relief flitted across his spark. Medbay would be nearly empty at this joor, meaning he could sneak in and snag a cold pack with ease. Glancing at the mech still sprawled on the floor, he made a decision and stumbled to the door on still-shaking legs.

It was almost half a joor later when Jazz returned to the office, at some point during which Prowl had come to. The mech was sitting on the floor, doorwings splayed as he leaned his back against his desk.

“I’d thought you’d made a run for it.” The Praxian commented hoarsely as Jazz appeared in the doorway.

“No, went to fetch you a cold pack.” Jazz replied, offering the pack. “Your systems were overheating after… well. After whatever the frag that was.”

“Ah. Thank you.” Prowl coughed awkwardly, taking the proffered cold pack and bending it to activate. “What you triggered is none of your concern.”

“Of course not.” Jazz snorted.

“It has no bearing on my ability to perform my duties and therefore it is up to my discretion with whom I share that information,” Prowl growled, engine revving lowly. “I recommend you drop the subject at this time.”

“Fine.” Jazz hissed. He’d do some investigating later. Maybe when he didn’t still feel like slag.

There were several moments of uncomfortable silence, Jazz leaning heavily against the wall just inside the doorway, plating still quivering. Prowl continued to lean against his desk, holding the cold pack against his helm. Both very deliberately refused to catch the others gaze for more than a fleeting moment, jerking away instantly.

Jazz cleared his throat, visor still trained on the floor.

“You’d probably be more comfortable in the chair.”

“Most likely.” Prowl agreed, optics boring into his own knees.

Pushing off the wall, Jazz stood before the sitting tactician. Suddenly a black hand presented itself before the mech’s optics.

“Need some help?” Jazz asked, expression unreadable behind his visor.

The Praxian took the hand silently, and Jazz pretended not to notice the way Prowl flinched when his hand brushed the Praxian’s doorwings in an attempt to steady him.

Once Prowl was safely seated, Jazz hopped onto the desk, legs dangling over the edge closest to the Praxian.

“I don’t take kindly to guests ruining by desk by sitting on it.”

Looking at the datapads scattered across the floor, several cracked from the fight, Jazz couldn’t suppress a disbelieving snort.

“I’m pretty sure we already ruined it earlier, mech.”

“True.” Prowl huffed as he examined the carnage.

“Here.” Jazz pulled a sealant patch from his subspace and flicked it towards the tactician. “Looks like I nicked one of the lines in your neck earlier. It’s still leakin’, but that should do the trick.”

“Thank you.” Prowl murmured, retrieving the patch from where it had landed in his lap and returning the cold pack to the saboteur, who slipped it into his subspace.

There was another uncomfortable pause as Prowl applied the patch, Jazz still sitting on the desk, gaze unwavering from its focus on his hands as they clenched and unclenched around the edge of the desk. Suddenly he leaped up and began to pace, unable to keep still.

“Commander Jazz?” Prowl questioned nervously, one hand still at his neck, testing the seal on the patch.

Jazz stopped, his back to Prowl and visor trained on his pedes.

“You could press charges. What I did, it’s enough to get me court-martialed, I know that. I won’t even fight it if you do, I promise.”

“I have no intention of pressing charges.”

“What?” Jazz whirled around in surprise. “Why the frag not?”

“I do not believe it a prudent or necessary course of action.”

“But I hacked you, a fellow Autobot officer, without cause. I violated my own ethics, for frag’s sake.”

“Then I suggest you handle your punishment on your own. I will not be pressing charges.” Prowl reiterated calmly.

“Why?”

“You are far too valuable an asset to the Autobot cause to let something as trivial as personal grievances interfere with duty.”

“Of course.” The Polyhexian huffed, resuming his pacing. “Duty. I should’ve known. That’s all it seems you live for.”

“I’d assumed in this case you’d be grateful for that trait.”

“Grateful. Of course. How logical.” He scoffed, turning to face the desk.

“Ah. I see. You are still angry with me.”

“Of course I am!”

“Commander,” Prowl sighed heavily, “do you like what you do?”

“What?”

“Do you enjoy what you do? Being an assassin, a saboteur, an agent for the Autobot army?”

“What the frag’s that got to do with anything?” Jazz gestured angrily.

“Answer the question please.” Prowl sighed again, exasperation saturating his field.

“It’s not my favorite gig, but I’m good at it, an’ well, I doubt a musician’s much help to the cause.”

“Why do you assume I am any different?” The tactician replied softly, wary optics meeting the visored gaze of the mech on the other side of his desk.

“Because you spend every waking moment inside this slagging office!” The saboteur barked, slamming his hands on the desk. “You work at all joors until you’re halfway to stasis and never do anything else. Can you see why one might draw the conclusion that you enjoy it?”

“I-”

“You barely fuel. You rarely show up in the rec room and you never stay and chat with anybody.” Jazz continued to pace, waving his hands harshly as he continued to rant. “You have no friends. And then you go and pull slag like this stunt with assigning suicide missions. Can you understand why people call you emotionless?”

“Commander Jazz-”

“Just answer me this. How many?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand-”

“Tell me how many.”

“How many what?”

“How many missions like this. How many deactivated.”

“Be more specific.”

“How many suicide missions! How many labels did you change? How many Autobots sent to their deaths without knowing why! How many are deactivated because of you?”

His vents were heaving, he noticed suddenly. He was leaning over the desk, shouting into Prowl’s face again. The tactician didn’t move, frame rigid and doorwings pulled low behind his shoulders as if bracing for an attack. Testing this, Jazz rumbled his engine threateningly and his spark gave a painful twist when Prowl flinched.

“Sorry.” Jazz whispered, standing straight and putting some distance between himself and the other mech. “Please answer the question.”

Prowl let a puff of air sigh through his vents, carefully shifting to a more relaxed pose as if anticipating a sudden blow. Finally, the tension bled from his frame and he began to speak.

“Twenty three suicide missions assigned at my command.” Prowl stated softly, optics fixed on an unseen point on the surface of his desk. “Fifteen knowingly misclassified. Those missions together account for a total of seventy one confirmed Autobot fatalities, eight missing in action, and three wounded. That count includes Bumblebee and his teammates.”

“They aren’t just ‘his teammates’.” Jazz growled, renewed anger surging through him at the tactician's seemingly callous tone. “They were Autobots with names and stories. They had sparks. But I guess you wouldn’t know much about that, would you?”

“On the contrary, I keep records of every Autobot casualty under my command.” Prowl refuted quietly, still unable to meet Jazz’s gaze. “Every fatality, every wounded, every lost soldier from every engagement or mission I’ve ever overseen in the course of my service to the cause is recorded in my personal records.”

“Why? It is some sick way for you to keep score?” The words were nearly spat, as if they were so detestable it pained their speaker to hold them in his mouth.

“No. It is my way of knowing what I shall have to answer for once this infernal war is over with.”

There was a beat of tense silence as Jazz processed those words. Prowl’s optics were dimmed as if grieving for every lost life. He looked tired, shoulders slumped from bearing the weight of an entire planet. Suddenly, to Jazz’s eyes, he didn’t look like the sparkless monster he’d imagined, but simply a mech. A weary mech worn from a burden far too heavy and far too large to carry alone. 

“Oh.”

Jazz wanted to say more, but his voice failed him. This mech blamed himself for every single Autobot lost under his command and Jazz had the gall to call him sparkless. As much as Jazz cared about the soldiers under his command, even he knew things happened in a war that no one could control and that no one was responsible for. To carry the burden of every Autobot casualty showed a level of empathy Jazz had previously believed the mech incapable of.

“Do not think me ignorant of the rumors. I know what is whispered behind my back.” Prowl continued, oblivious to the tumult inside the mech across from him. A faint smile tipped his lipplates as he spoke. “I am Praxian, after all. We hear everything said behind our backs.”

“Did you just crack a joke?” Jazz gawked, snapping out of his reverie to fix Prowl with an uncomprehending stare.

“The point is-”

“Did you seriously just crack a joke?”

“The point being,” Prowl ground out, the flare of his plating and doorwings effectively silencing the Polyhexian. “I know what the common soldier thinks of me. What you think of me.” His gaze pinned Jazz to the far wall, his tone firm and unyielding. “I am not the sparkless, unfeeling beast you believe me to be. I am but a mech, just a mech, trying to keep this army alive long enough to win this war. We cannot fail in this. If we do, if the Autobot cause fails, then Cybertron is lost. Megatron will run himself into the Pit and take our entire race with him. We must win. We must.” His voice grew soft, almost as if speaking to himself more so than Jazz. “We must. And so I do what I must, no matter the personal cost. I make decisions I loathe because they must be made. I have done horrible things, things that will haunt me for the rest of my functioning, because there is no other way. I do what I must because there is nothing else I can do.”

“Primus.” Jazz ex-vented, turning away,

unable to bear the sight of the mech before him any longer. His hands rubbed his mouth absently as he struggled with his conflicting emotions, barely resisting the urge to slam his helm into the wall.

“May he grant my spark forgiveness,” Prowl whispered, almost prayer-like.

“Yeah, me too.”

There was a beat of silence as they both reflected upon their sins, Prowl slowly lifting his gaze to stare at the other mech as he processed his words.

“How many?” Prowl’s voice was jarring after the silence.

“What?” The saboteur replied instinctively, off-kilter from the events of the evening.

“How many have you killed, Commander?”

“Autobot or Decepticon?”

“Do you know?”

“I lost track eons ago.” He sighed. “On both counts.”

“I see.”

Prowl’s voice was flinty, field tinged with bitterness.

“That’s a bit hypocritical of me, ain’t it?” Jazz’s gaze finally returned to the other mech, traces of shame and apology edging his field. “Demandin’ you know your count and not knowin’ mine?”

“Perhaps.” Prowl agreed with a small nod. “But I believe those are your words, not mine.”

Jazz barked a bitter laugh. “We’re both real pieces a work, aren’t we?”

“No, just mechs struggling to do the impossible against more terrible odds than a more benevolent universe would have permitted.” Prowl’s voice left no room for argument. “We are just mechs, doing what we must. Nothing more. I simply hope that Cybertron and its people will see it the same way when this foul work is done.”

“That’s a Pit of a burden ta carry, ain’t it?”

“One I have managed quite well alone.”

“Ha, because that’s what everyone calls working themselves to the struts with minimal recharge and energon. Managing quite well.”

“My personal habits are none of your concern.”

“No, they aren’t. But they are my concern if they interfere with your duty.”

“I am still quite capable of performing my duty and resent the implication otherwise.”

“Not sayin’ you aren’t, but if ya keep running yourself like this, someday you will be. Now, I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist, but even I can tell you’re tearing yourself up inside. That ain’t something a sparkless monster is capable of.”

The sound that came from Prowl was something between a bitter laugh and a choked sob.

“Thank you.” He forced out, field roiling with some undefinable emotion. “After hearing rumors to the contrary for so long, I had almost begun to believe them.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t like ya, but you’re not some emotionless drone.”

“I shall not labor under any misconceptions of your opinion of me.”

“Good.”

“I shall also properly label all missions and consult you whenever preparing personnel assignments for maximum risk missions.”

“Thank you.” Jazz sighed. “It's better that way. An’ if we do still end up assigning suicide missions and not everyone makes it home, well…” The saboteur trailed off. “This way you don't have to carry that burden alone.”

“Thank you.”

“I still don’t like ya, but I ain’t gonna let you break yourself either. That’s exactly what blaming yourself for every single Autobot casualty would do to you. I ain’t gonna let that happen. You’re too valuable.”

A faint shadow of a smile flickered across Prowl’s lip plates. 

“It seems even you occasionally prioritize duty over personal grievances.”

“Yeah, well, as much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. We can’t afford to lose this war. Without you, we probably would.”

“My calculations agree.” Prowl sighed heavily, as if dreading his next words. “There is also a similar probability of defeat should we ever lose you, Commander Jazz.”

“Primus. No pressure, huh?”

The Praxian hummed an inarticulate noise of agreement, optics dim with exhaustion.

Jazz checked his chronometer and groaned at the number on his HUD. 

“My shift starts in a joor.” He lamented, rubbing his faceplate heavily.

“As does mine.” Prowl replied wearily.

“If we go now, we’d have enough time to hit the washrasks and snag a cube in the rec room and still be on time.”

“The rec room is a brand of torture I am hesitant to subject myself to on a good day. Today is not a good day.”

Jazz frowned slightly at the mech’s words and resigned himself to consider them later.

“Why do ya dislike it so much?”

“Too loud. Too many voices. Too many unfriendly gazes. I generally prefer the officers’ lounge near the Command Center.”

Logical given the mech’s frame type. Praxian doorwings were notoriously sensitive and the noise of the crowded rec room would be borderline painful, especially with the loud taunts typically thrown around in the tactician's presence. Still, if Jazz was going to attempt to help the mech better integrate into Autobot society and not lose himself in his guilt, it was an experience he’d have to face eventually. 

“You know, it might help your reputation if you let the rank and file get to know you as more than the voice in their ear during combat.” Jazz suggested carefully.

Prowl simply grunted his disapproval.

“Alright, that’s a mission for another day.” Jazz muttered to himself, still wondering when and why he’d somehow taken it upon himself to care about this mech. “But will you at least have your energon with me?”

“Why?”

“Consider it a peace offering. Or an apology. Penance. A safeguard against further misunderstandings. Whatever you prefer. I’m pretty sure you need it after all I put you through.”

“Accepted, with one condition.” Prowl nodded,

standing up slowly, hydraulics hissing.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“We head to the washracks first. Appearing as we do now - ” Prowl’s optics traced the many scuffs, dents and paint transfers marring their plating - “would be cause for talk.”

“Might help your reputation.” Jazz barked a laugh.

“It would certainly only add to yours.”

“Oh?” 

“Some of the things one hears about you are downright licentious.” Prowl raised an optic ridge, a smirk barely tipping his lip plates.

“Ha! Probably just the Twins causing trouble.”

“I would hope so.” Prowl gestured towards the door, doorwings flexing in a subtle stretch. “Shall we then, Commander?”

“Please, I think you’ve earned the right to call me Jazz.”

“I’d prefer to call you by your proper title, Commander.”

“And I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“As you wish, Jazz.”

Good. Then let’s get goin’, Prowler.” 

The tactician's helm pulled back with a confused frown.

“Prowler?”

Jazz couldn’t suppress his smirk at the other mech’s expression.

“Well, come on then.” He waved for the Praxian to follow, sauntering out the door.

“Prowler?” He heard the tactician mutter behind him.

Jazz felt a small twinge of hope flutter in his spark as he heard Prowl fall into step beside him. There was far more to the Praxian than he had seen, perhaps because subconsciously he hadn’t wanted to see it. The mech was fascinating. Valuable. Tragic. Maybe it was his guilty conscience or his long-repressed empathy, but he couldn’t help hoping he’d find a way to reach this mech. It would be difficult, he knew, but if there was even a chance that some good could come of this night, it would be worth the effort.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, constructive criticism is welcome. Thanks for reading!


End file.
